


Things you said to yourself

by Nemamka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Dissociation, Emotional Roller Coaster, Haircuts, M/M, Pining, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Pre-Canon, References to Depression, Slight Unresolved Sexual Tension, Young Victor Nikiforov, blending into canon time, rated T for a slight implication at UST I guess, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14342787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemamka/pseuds/Nemamka
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov believes in himself.It can be good. Or dangerous.written for a prompt same as the title,requested by darkishleaf, thank you for the inspiration!and my sincere apologies but it's only eventual Victuuri, I got stuck with this arch on Viktor again





	Things you said to yourself

“Look, I can do  _ this _ !”

Seven-year-old Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t spare another blink at his coach as he rushes to the center of the ice rink. He knows Yakov will watch. He watches his every move. Well, except when Viktor ditches his last lesson and sneaks out of school to go skating. Skating, and skating, and skating - it’s such fun! His classmates don’t really understand why he’s not playing football with them instead, but that’s okay, he doesn’t mind. As long as Yakov claps after he presents a spin he’s practiced in secret, it’s okay. 

Viktor promises to behave and do all his homework. Yakov lets him sign up for a local challenge cup, and his little heart swells; he almost feels like crying, which is so weird, since he is not sad, no, not at all. He wraps his arms around the tall old man’s waist in excitement.

 

*** * ***   
  


“Wow!”, twelve-year-old Viktor Nikiforov calls out loud. He loves the word. He’s just learnt it from a movie he saw on tv. And then he thinks to himself, “I can  _ do  _ this!” 

It really is a thrill. Your first jump. Your first triple. Your first perfect spin. And how much freedom the feeling of speed gives to you, although you have no idea yet what you want to be free of. But every movement your body is capable of lightens some of the daily load. Why is not everybody doing this? He doesn’t judge, though; he adores the audience, be either athletes themselves or simply fans. Their smiles! He doesn’t always see their eyes but the camera flashes glint bright enough for him to see: they love him. 

He cannot wait to show them what he’s just achieved in practice. Ah, Yakov is angry, calling him  _ Vitya  _ as threateningly as he can, but Viktor just cannot wipe the grin off his face. Maybe if he just slides to his coach and asks, really, really nicely, if he can put this in his program for the next competition… 

“How many times do I have to tell you, until you’re older, you can’t... “ 

Or maybe he just… won’t ask. He tries to suppress his mischievous thoughts under his best apologetic puppy eyes he can manage while panting from exertion.   
  


*** * ***  
  


Fifteen-year-old Viktor Nikiforov closes his eyes with a deep breath. “I can do this”, he mouths to himself, freezing into his starting pose. A smile spreads on his face as the music begins; he really can, there’s no doubt, and he happily dances through his free program. He’s the most beautiful person on the ice. He’s a fairy. He’s a goddess. 

The moment he stops he’s a world champion, and there’s nothing better about that than the cheers of the crowd. He is beaming, reflecting all their love, trying to contain himself, as Lilia taught, to uphold grace as a performer; but he’s jumping on his toe picks, throwing his fist in the air, and waving with his arms all over the place as he says his thanks and goodbyes. 

He wants to do this again, soon and often. It’s never enough. These people need him, and to be needed is the greatest feeling in the universe. If not by someone at home, then… thousands everywhere.   
  


*** * ***  
  


“You can do this.” 

Yakov pats his shoulder as he sends Viktor Nikiforov off to finish the last big event before his eighteenth birthday. He knows it well by now; the audience is a fickle mistress whose favorite emotion is surprise, no matter what kind. 

He flubs five jumps, steps out of yet another. He comes to a halt with a grin on his face, shrugging and laughing at himself, his goofy long limbs that need more control than he sometimes anticipates. But the applause just doesn’t seem to end. Gold goes to another talent that year, but his heart is content: he can do  _ that  _ and still they care. 

Yakov is shaking his head but he hugs Viktor back, strong and tight. 

 

*** * ***  
  


At twenty, Viktor Nikiforov cuts his long hair. 

Well, not him, of course, he goes to the best salon in St. Petersburg. After every single person he’s mentioned it to gasped “no, you can’t do that!”, and after a cold-patient five minutes of calming down the barber,  _ yes, I’m sure _ , and even offering to pay double, it’s done. 

He has realized it, somewhere along the way; no one can tell him what he can or cannot do, only himself. 

He has actually thought long and deep about revising his image. The new style is every kind of strange; his back and neck is always exposed now; he somehow misses the weight; days go by with him ruffling his short strands and simultaneously figuring out how to get rid of the nest his pillow so fondly creates every night; and he laughs at himself when he forgets about it and tries to tuck his nonexistent locks behind his ears. 

But the side fringe covers some of his face now. It makes him look mysterious, sexy even, his good friend, Christophe tells him. He smiles and hums, noncommittally; from his phone, he looks up to the mirror on his closet door. The funniest thing is how much comfort that cover brings him. How safe it makes him feel. Sexy, you say?  _ A playboy _ . Yeah. Yes! That’s a story right there, isn’t it? New to tell, surprising to hear. 

A few weeks and his tiny quirks and habits align with the change. Inspiration hits him like a wave and he puts more focused effort into his looks than ever.   
  


*** * ***   
  


“I can do this.” 

The sentence has lost its meaning.

Well, not entirely, not technically, but it’s nonchalant, it’s weightless, you’ve heard it too many times and it’s confusing. Confusing because t’s been true, it’s been your trademark, it’s been your motivation  _ and  _ it’s become something that cannot stand on its own anymore; for some time now, it’s been followed by another one: 

“So what?” 

One more year, Yakov asks him every time. One more year, his rinkmates encourage him. One more year? the sports magazines keep speculating. 

Twenty-five-year-old Viktor Nikiforov just keeps skating, and skating, and skating. It’s not… fun, it’s just easier than deciding for anything else. But he doesn’t know what to say anymore. The cheers, the gifts, the scores tell him to keep going, not himself. 

He comes to a halt with his eyes closed, every fiber of him cold and controlled. As if time stopped and somehow he’s become one with the ice he’s spent so much of his life with. 

And the applause doesn’t seem to end. 

It just dulls. His ears ring with it in silence. He doesn’t feel like crying, which is weird, since he’s… sad. He’s supposed to be happy. He’s just won. He’s just shown the world he can still… do this. 

So what. 

Yakov hugs him but he can’t feel it. 

So what.

Icecaps are still melting.   
  


*** * ***

 

“I can’t do this.” 

Twenty-six-year-old Viktor Nikiforov is honestly unable decide whether to go jack off in his shower or jump out his window. Neither seems very productive right now but he needs to do  _ something _ , he needs an outlet, no matter what kind, because  _ last night was just _ … 

He can’t stop his legs from bouncing if he sits down, so he just keeps pacing in his room, ruffling his hair again as if there could be some secret solution to his frustration falling out any moment now. Makkachin eyes him from one corner to the other and back. She’s probably amused. Viktor doesn’t blame her. He laughs at himself too, out loud, and just shrugs at the dog. 

A sigh breaks free of his lips for at least the hundredth time that day. 

“Can I?” 

There’s too many things he could tell himself. There’s too many things others are telling him:  _ go for it _ and  _ don’t you dare _ are the most common examples. He’s not sure which is right, so he waits and thinks it through. It really is a thrill. 

 

*** * ***   
  


The moment he starts he’s a world champion, and there’s nothing better about that than knowing: he can do this. He puts his heart in it, almost reborn with so much desperate will to shout out his longing. He can do this, he’s  _ ready  _ now. The sentence gains a heavy, robust meaning again. 

He holds his graceful end pose, as Lilia taught. He bows and waves and compresses the love of the audience into a brilliant smile. But he wonders if it was enough. All these people, thousands watching him, clapping for him, but did  _ that one _ just see? The anticipation is killing him and  _ that  _ is what makes him feel alive again. It’s the greatest feeling in the universe.   
  


*** * ***  
  


Oh, this is the best thing, Viktor can’t wait to tell this to his grandchildren. 

_ He  _ didn’t see. 

He didn’t watch if Viktor could do it because he’s believed it almost all his life. Hell, he based his career on it. 

He didn’t see: he  _ did  _ it. 

Twenty-seven-year-old Viktor Nikiforov closes the video, apologizes to Makkachin for making her get up off his lap, and types _aeroflot_ in his laptop browser in really, really quick succession. 


End file.
